London, 1971
On his way home from the record shop he owned, Mark Lauer checked his mailbox, a force of habit. Usually it was nothing important, nothing special. But when he saw the envelope with the Soviet return address, he knew immediately without even checking the name who it was from.
The official name on the return address was Kir Denisov, but of course, that was not the Russian's real name, nor was he Russian, no more than Mark Lauer was actually named Mark Lauer, nor was he English. Círdan had moved to Lake Baikal - what was left of Cuivienen - and had since joined the Soviet space program as a scientist. Once a shipwright, always a shipwright.
There were very few Elves in human lands to begin with, and most of them had eventually gone home. Now it was just two - himself, and Círdan, who was honorbound to stay until Maglor decided to swallow his pride and take the straight road and face the proverbial music.
For centuries it had been hard to stay in touch - there was ósanwe, but it was diminished across long distances as they did not have the closest bond. In the modern era, the mail system helped them to keep up with each other again, after they had disclosed locations over ósanwe, but of course getting mail from the USSR in 1971 was suspicious, so these messages were few and far between. Nonetheless, once a year, Círdan still sent him a letter to ask if he wanted to go home. And the answer was always no.
Maglor was not going to return to Valinor and face judgment from the Valar. He still believed that his father had been absolutely right to defy them and lead a rebellion. The idea of going back and bowing and scraping to the Valar made him ill. The idea of living among those who bowed and scraped to the Valar made him ill.
For thousands of years Maglor had wandered the Earth. He would always miss his family, and a life where he had to move around every ten to twenty years because he didn't age and it would arouse suspicion was necessarily a lonely one. He'd had a few companions, but he either had to leave them, not able to share his secret, or he could but then of course they died of old age or sickness or injury while he lived on... keeping their memory alive in the Song.
Nonetheless, Maglor had at this point lived longer among Mortals than he had among his own kind. He admired humanity - it was fascinating to see their species advance over the ages. He appreciated that he'd been able to travel the world several times over, had seen many different cultures. Where he came from everyone was so alike, and he loved the beauty of humans with their different skin tones and hair and eye colors and their diverse shapes; his father would have marveled, with his artist's eye. He also loved that in places like where he lived now, such as England, the seasons changed. It bloomed in spring. It rained in fall, the leaves turning a riot of red, orange and gold. It snowed in winter. It was marvelous. Valinor seemed colorless to him, unchanging. The world of the humans was full of vibrant life.
This was his home now. He was not going back. And now he was here on a mission. Pop music was spreading around the world, performed by many gifted artists. Maglor smiled as he remembered the four young lads from Liverpool that he'd drank with one night at a pub. When his paths crossed with different singers and musicians, they walked away inspired to create new works. Masterpieces. It was of course their own creativity, but he helped fuel the fire. Here in England in the 1960s and 1970s, there was so much talent. It was the place to be.
Maglor chuckled as he tucked the latest letter from Círdan into his satchel, going inside to feed his cat before dipping back out for a bite to eat at the cafe a few blocks away. Círdan was stubborn, but he found that trait endearing rather than annoying; it was like his father, too. He'd entertain himself with the latest creatively worded plea to return to Valinor, over a cuppa.
_
In that cafe that evening, Reginald Dwight and Bernard John Taupin were having tea. Maglor watched them chatting, Taupin writing while Reg hummed a few bars. Every now and again Maglor's eyes caught the singer's, and eventually the singer flashed him a grin and winked. Maglor wasn't interested - David Bowie and Mick Jagger were more his type - but nonetheless he smiled back. Reg had talent, and was exactly the sort of gifted-yet-damaged soul that Maglor found himself drawn to give a healing touch, so their Song did not leave the world too soon like too many others he hadn't been able to save. Janis. Jimi.
Maglor had come here to unwind, not to Work, but of course Work tended to follow him and here he was and there they were, a few tables away. And today his unwinding was special - he was going to open that latest letter from Círdan. From Russia, with love.
Maglor took a sip of tea, took a deep breath, and opened the envelope. He unfolded the letter and it said simply:
I understand now. I don't want to go home either. Never mind the straight road - let's head for the North Star.
Maglor threw his head back and laughed, delighted.
The laughter caught Reg's attention again, and Maglor was in a generous mood. When the waitress came back around, he ordered a round of tea refills "for my friends over there".
On his way out of the cafe, Taupin stopped him. Before he could open his mouth to say thanks, Reg did. "You're very kind, sir. I do have money, allow me to treat you -?"
"No need," Maglor said, putting a hand on Taupin's shoulder, and Reg's shoulder. "I wanted to say thanks to you for your music." He patted them, and then he was gone.
Later, as Taupin was on the motorway heading to his parents' home, a stanza got stuck in his head. The words had finally come to him.
_
On March third, 1972, that song was released.
And I think it's gonna be a long long time
'Til touchdown brings me 'round again to find
I'm not the man they think I am at home
Oh, no, no, no.
I'm a rocket man
Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone
Nantokanare, who has been one of my best friends for the better part of a decade, in 2020 shared with me a Fourth Age headcanon, which I quote:
"Know how Cirdan wouldn't leave, except on the last boat with the last elf?
Maglor wouldn't leave. So Cirdan can't, either, and the two of them are the last two elves in Middle-Earth, because Cirdan is honorbound to stay in case Maglor ever changes his mind.
Maglor never does, and eventually tells these stories to Tolkien, whereas Cirdan (being VERY old as one the original elves and all) returns to his birthplace, what's left of Cuivienen - Lake Baikal. As a shipwright, he can't help but get involved with the space program in the USSR. He wants to build a ship to help men find the straight road.
But when he sees the spaceship take flight, something he engineered with his own hands on behalf of mortals, he understands."
This is a gift for him, to flesh out that headcanon. Love you, bro. 💗💗💗